The Board Has Spoken
by Deklava
Summary: Sherlock is bored in Switzerland over the holidays, so he buys an Ouija Board and persuades John to help him experiment with it. The spirit they contact basically tells them to just shag.


Sherlock and John knelt on the bearskin rug in front of the softly crackling fireplace. They were facing each other with an Ouija board balanced across their knees. Sherlock had picked it up on a whim that morning, while hunting for a rare bookstore in downtown Zurich, and although John thought it was money poorly spent, he was in the mood for a lark.

"Okay, let's go, shall we?" Sherlock quivered with enthusiasm. He'd sulked when Mycroft insisted that he and John accompany him to Switzerland to visit their mother over New Year's, and John was secretly relieved that he'd found something to alleviate the boredom.

Mycroft watched them lazily from the armchair across the room. Anthea had already gone upstairs after a busy evening of transmitting his orders back to London, and he was weary enough to consider going to bed himself… once he'd summoned the energy to move. The warmth from the fireplace and the two glasses of Cognac that he'd relished earlier left him too languid to leave the chair.

"Please, Sherlock, tell me you don't believe in that superstitious nonsense," he sighed.

"Shut up and have another drink. John, you go first."

"Fine." The former army doctor rolled his eyes, feeling more than a little foolish. He thought for a minute, and then smirked. "Right then, what color knickers does Sergeant Donovan wear to bed every night?"

Sherlock snickered. "When Anderson's around? None."

Mycroft's drooping eyes flickered a little. "You two are full of shit," he yawned.

"Fine, Mycroft, if it makes you feel better, we're all full of shit except you." Sherlock was in an unusually good mood. "Now go on, John, and be serious."

"All right, all right. Um…. What's my sister's name?"

The plastic marker quivered under their fingers. Then it slid across the board while the two men watched in amazement, and pointed to the letters H-A-R-R-I-E-T.

"Good God," Sherlock gasped. His eyes lit up with excitement.

"You pushed it!" John's surprise quickly transformed into annoyance.

"I did not! Mycroft, come here!"

When no response was forthcoming, Sherlock looked over his shoulder and saw that his brother, after loosening his belt to accommodate his gargantuan dinner, had fallen asleep in the armchair.

"Hey-it's moving again!" John exclaimed. Sherlock looked down, and watched as the marker slowly spelled out E-A-T and M-E. He flushed and snapped, "YOU pushed that."

"No, I didn't."

"Of course you did. You're making fun of me, aren't you?"

"Sherlock, I didn't push it, damn it!"

He looked so flustered that Sherlock had to laugh. Then a wicked smile crept across his pale face.

"Whether you did or didn't, I see that the board has spoken." The detective laid it aside on the rug, feeling desire warm his blood to greater levels than the fire had accomplished. He reached out, unzipped John's jeans, and slid his long white fingers inside. John, sweat breaking out on his brow, laid a warning hand on his slim wrist.

"Mycroft-" he managed hoarsely.

"He won't stir until he smells breakfast." Sherlock batted John's fingers away and pulled out the doctor's rapidly swelling cock. All it took was a few seconds of skilled wrist movement, and John was shedding his clothes like mad.

"All right, you sneaky sod, you asked for it. I'm going to fuck you until the board says MY name next time."

"Guaranteed it will, with you pushing it." Sherlock hauled off his own clothes. Seconds later, they were both naked and running their hands feverishly over each other's bodies, relishing the similarities and differences alike.

Sherlock was hugely turned on by the bristly feeling of the bearskin rug against his feverishly hot skin. He and John had fucked once on a pile of mink coats, when they chased a thief into a furrier's warehouse, and that had been fun, but the rawness of bear fur jacked up his libidinal thermostat a few extra notches. Aroused beyond his usual rational thought, he closed his soft lips over John's weeping cockhead and began sucking furiously, using one hand to grip the shaft and caressing John's swollen testicles with the other.

John, who was shakily propping himself up on one elbow, threw his head back and pressed his lips together to muffle the groans of pleasure that were building in his throat. Sherlock was always magnificent at sucking cock, but the knowledge that Mycroft was snoring only six feet away made the encounter more delicious and hot. He threw himself onto his side and buried his face in the thick rug, not trusting his self-restraint any longer.

Sherlock was swirling his tongue happily along the vein-streaked shaft when John suddenly took his shoulders and pulled him gently away.

"What the hell?"

"I'm not coming until I've fucked you, like I said. Unlike boards, I don't make things up."

Relieved and excited, Sherlock rolled onto his stomach and regarded John through hooded eyes. The firelight shed a ghostly softness over the lean contours of his naked body. The sight nearly made John choke with desire. He got to his knees, lunged forward, and covered the detective's smooth buttocks with kisses. Then he gently parted Sherlock's cheeks with his warm hands and flicked the tip of his tongue back and forth across the winking pucker of flesh between them.

"Oooh." Sherlock made a fist and dug his teeth into it. He raised his hips and pressed his shoulders into the rug, baring more of himself to John's oral worship. "John… more… please."

John happily complied, sliding his wet, slick tongue along his lover's bared asscrack. He blew gently on the now-moist skin. When Sherlock shivered, he chuckled and gave the detective's quivering hole a few languid licks before poking his tongue inside.

"Oh, my God…."

Sherlock's thighs were shaking like mad. John chuckled again at the sheer feeling of power over the other man's pleasure; the vibrations tickled over-sensitive nerves and went straight to Sherlock's prostate. The moaning detective reached for his own rigid, leaking prick, but John was faster. He stuck his hand between Sherlock's legs and pressed his cock tightly against his stomach, creating a slick tightness that the other man began thrusting into.

"John, pleasepleasepleaseplease….." Sherlock's hips began bucking crazily at the dual stimulation. John had to use his other arm to encircle his waist and hold him firmly in place. He lazily licked the outside of Sherlock's hole, using soft and maddening strokes until the detective tried frantically to push back against his face. "John, fuck me with your tongue. Don't torture me!"

"Since you asked so nicely…." John pushed his tongue aggressively past the now-relaxed ring of muscle and lapped at the silky inner walls, reducing Sherlock to a trembling, panting mess.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," Sherlock whimpered, digging his teeth deeper into his clenched fist. "John, I'm going to come-"

John felt the first fluttering of a contraction, and pulled back quickly. When Sherlock let out a muffled wail of frustration, John took him by the waist, turned him around, and pulled him forward until they were chest to chest and Sherlock's thighs were gripping John's hips. The detective's eyes rolled in sheer bliss when John lowered him carefully onto his hard cock. It was the same position they'd used when they fucked in a half-empty London porno house last month, fighting to muffle their laughter and groans while horny old men wanked alone in their seats.

Each upward thrust grazed Sherlock's tortured prostate and made his eyes roll back into his head. "Oh, God," he moaned yet again. "Fuck me, John… oh, shit…. Fuck me hard! Now!"

John squeezed him tightly in a fierce gesture of both love and desire. Their hammering hearts pressed against one another's heaving chests as they heaved and groaned and twisted in the dancing firelight. As orgasm approached yet again, Sherlock dug his nails into John's back and dealt frantic love bites to his good shoulder.

They came at the same time, which was often the case given their ability to incite one another to greater levels of lust, daring, desire, everything. Sherlock only had to grab his cock once before he spurted convulsively all over both their stomachs, and John lifted him higher in one act of inspired strength before flooding his insides with hot come. Sherlock threw his head back, but luckily John covered his mouth before his cries could awaken Mycroft.

After Sherlock stopped squeezing and thrashing, he went limp and lowered his head against John's shoulder, which was covered with bite marks. "I love you," he whispered.

"And I love you, even if you are mad enough to let a fucking board give you ideas." Still hugging his lover tightly to his muscular chest, John lowered both of their bodies to the side until they were lying on the rug. They kissed deeply, drinking in the sweetness of each other's mouths. Then they fell asleep, against their better judgement.

Mycroft awoke shortly before dawn, when a log in the fireplace crackled noisily and the smell of brewing coffee and frying eggs in the lodge kitchen reached his nostrils. He blinked, gazed about- and spotted Sherlock and John still asleep on the rug, naked and locked in one another's embrace.

In 0.10 seconds he had deduced everything that had gone on while he slept. After a nervous glance at his suit (an eight hundred pound tailored ensemble could be devastated by stray… projectiles), he relaxed, smiled, and shook his head.

Those two are meant for each other, he thought as he rose, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles, took a quilt off the nearby sofa, and laid it carefully over both men. Then he tiptoed quietly out of the room, suddenly feeling a warm and compelling urge to call Gregory before breakfast.


End file.
